


hearts as one

by microcosmo



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/microcosmo/pseuds/microcosmo
Summary: Kris longs for what he doesn't have, unaware he's always had it.
Relationships: Marth/My Unit | Kris
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	hearts as one

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a Kris/Marth kind of mood and this sort of just happened 🤗

It isn’t often Kris’s thoughts stray from the essential into the fanciful.

Many times has he been labeled brusque and uninspired, blunt and ill-mannered. No different from the callouses and cicatrices littering his war-begotten body, crafted and shaped by the swing of his blade, by every charge into a sea of silver and steel, every stampede into the foray of blood and carnage. He is rough and rugged and lacking in delicacy. Far more in common he holds with the plated armor his companions don than the gentle touch shared between comrades in arms, mother and child, perhaps a pair of lovers, desperate to weave oaths and hymns in one another’s honor, to enact upon each other a tenderness shared and birthed as the progeny of two hearts coalescing as one.

Foreign concepts to Kris. His grandfather was an honorable man, strong and duty-bound, but hardly affectionate.

A quiet grunt, a light tap to the boot, the allowance of a few more moments in bed before rising to work from dawn to dusk.

The unspoken and implicated is what Kris understands, what he understood until he began his service to the crown, where knights push and shove and guffaw to show their praise and camaraderie. Disconcerting and discomfiting he thought it, snapping at Luke for his over familiarity until his companions sought it necessary to explain the touches harmless, a display of friendship and not an accost.

It was difficult, growing accustomed. His fellow compatriots were kind enough to give him wide-berth, respecting his space and never intruding upon his person unless given explicit permission, which was usually never, because touches and whispers and gentle words of affection weren’t vapid and flippant gifts to hand out without discretion, without forethought and intent.

Kris knew not of delicacy, his tongue unrefined and sharp. Kris knew not of friendly nudges, his marrow and muscles meant for slaying and destruction. Kris knew not of a straying mind, lost in a haze of the fantastical, memories of playful words and teasing, of sun-kissed skin and hands clasped in his, firm and unrelenting.

No, with work to be done, Kris knew not of distractions. Knew only of sunken earth and crops, then blades and blood and honor and glory and shadows. Kris knew not, until the Gods sent him before his lord, and then he knew, and now he _knows._

He knows and it is a problem, because now that he knows, he cannot un-know it, and as his liege looms over his prone form, dirtied and sore and dazed from a swift roundhouse kick to the torso, the blunt side of a rapier smashing into his abdomen, he sees those azure eyes, the way they twinkle in amusement. Sees thin pink lips curving upward in a manner reminiscent of the sun rising upon the darkened horizons of a long forsaken world.

He knows all too well and longs for more _;_ more of what he has never had and can only dream of taking.

“You fought well, my shadow,” Prince— _King_ —Marth speaks, warm and steady, divinity in the face of a flawed, sinful creature. “It is only a matter of time before you can best me in combat.”

Kris musters a pained groan in response.

His liege speaks falsities. His ferocity is only rivaled by his capacity for compassion. Never is there a day that passes where Kris is not grateful they aren’t enemies, that he fights at his side rather than against it.

“Truly,” Marth insists, ever the balm against his wounded pride. Not that Kris has any to uphold, not when it is his liege pummeling him into the training grounds after a long day of council meetings and political bargaining. The ache in his muscles is sweet in its agony, a blessed reminder of who he stands before and below. It sends a tingle up his spine, will have him shuddering long after he’s retired to his quarters, lost in thoughts of cerulean and azure and skin touching skin.

Were it that Marth would step on him, enforce the power he holds over the paltry ex-farmhand he dutifully relies on, uncaring of the renown and accomplishments committed in his honor.

A laugh bubbles out of Kris at the thought. Closer his liege is to stripping and running the palace grounds stark than to ever degrade anyone in such a manner. Perhaps if he asks nicely, wheedles him the same way young Tiki does to convince her beloved Mar-Mar into a game or three during his busiest hours.

Perhaps.

“Lost to the stars you are, my friend,” Marth’s honeyed voice reaches his ears again, his features contorted in confusion, distant hints of concern notable in the downturn of his lips. “Was I too rough?”

“I’d prefer rougher,” Kris says, in-spite of himself. “You hold back.”

“I must. My intent is not to harm you.”

“You coddle me.”

“I care for you,” Marth smiles as he says it, holding out his hand. “Come. Allow me to look over your injuries. Your grip is still not what it was. You struggle with movement even now.”

“I can care for myself.”

“Which is why I ask you allow me to do so in your stead,” Marth inclines his head, eyes bright and adoring, in ways Kris longs to be for reasons they are not. “Allow me? Please?”

It’s a foolish question. An unnecessary request. Kris would have his prince—his _king_ —do whatever he pleases, whenever he wishes. He need not ask— _never_ —for Kris would allow anything of him.

He accepts the hand, relishes the touch, holds on longer than is strictly necessary and refuses to let go. Marth does not comment on the way he clings, simply smiles and tugs him along, never relenting, slow and steady as the pulsing of his blood, the beat of his heart nearly tangible.

Kris _longs_.

He longs as he shucks off his tunic, torn and in need of mending. He longs as he runs an idle hand along the curve of his shoulder where the precipice of pain and soreness intermingle.

It’s a weeks old injury, sustained during a skirmish at the Altean coast. An uprising of rogues. Nothing to balk at, nothing worth recalling, exempting how he was blind-sided by one of the curs while his thoughts drifted elsewhere; to the throne room, prostrated before his lord. Fingers beneath his chin, lifting his head, gazing upon him with untold tenderness.

They’re dangerous, these thoughts. The longing. He should not. He wishes he did not know.

But Kris does know, so he longs.

“You must be careful,” Marth chides, returning with salves and towels, seating himself beside him. “Take a few days to rest, friend. It will only worsen if you strain yourself.”

“You called for me.”

“I did.”

“You knew.”

“Even I can be selfish at times,” his king laughs, chagrined and sheepish. “Forgive me.”

“Always,” Kris breathes, eyes fluttering shut as his muscles are methodically cared for, the scent of medicinal herbs flooding his senses, seeping into his bruised skin. Marth’s manner is precise, never wasted, always giving what is necessitated and never what is not.

He is kind to lower himself in this way, gifting Kris with his time, effort and attention. It fills him with a childish sense of superiority that his king chooses to be with him, chooses to lay his heavenly hands upon his mortal flesh, _chooses_ to ask his consent when he has never not had it. He _chooses_ Kris, and Kris overflows with an avarice the Gods would frown upon. He wants more. _Needs_ more.

He cannot.

“Can’t you?”

“Pardon?”

“Can’t you move it?” Marth gestures at his shoulder. “Try stretching.”

Kris does. There’s still a pang of pain, but it’s near non-existent, a far cry better than before. Marth’s treatment proves itself successful.

“Thank you,” Kris says it genuinely, means it with his entire being.

“Of course. You need only say the word should you find yourself troubled again. I am no healer, but I am nothing if not persistent.”

“That you are, your highness.”

They share a smile. Kris moves to tug his tunic back on, the chill in the air giving him gooseflesh. He’s eager to return to his rooms, to rest and prepare for the following day’s work. Anything to stop himself from thinking too deeply about the phantom touch caressing his bruised flesh.

Marth stops him.

“You’ve endured much,” he says, resting a hand on Kris’s chest, where streaks of pale scar tissue stretch continuously, criss-crossing hideously, curving and dipping and reaching his back only to arrive at the jut of his hip and continue onward. “Do they pain you?”

“At times,” the worst of them does. The one that cuts across his back in a diagonal fashion. The product of a tenacious soldier. From an army. He doesn’t remember which. “Nothing debilitating.”

“They need not ground you to be worth seeking relief for.”

“There’s nothing to be done about them.”

“There’s always something to be done.”

“Are you disgusted?”

“Not at all.”

“Would you prefer I cover up?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I don’t understand,” Kris frowns, grasping Marth’s wrist when he attempts to pull away. It’s an impulsive move, something he would never consider, not with anyone else. Not unless they’re an enemy threatening all he holds dear. Not unless they're his king. “You’re bothered. Give me the reason.”

“Bothered isn’t quite the word,” Marth looks down at where their hands are joined. Kris almost believes he’s misstepped— _overstepped_ —and makes to let go, readying himself for a formal apology and punishment, to be taught his place. Instead, his king keeps him close, links their fingers, clasps them tightly together, his grip strong and firm, betraying the gentleness of his demeanor, the sweetness of his manner. “I am…troubled, I suppose. Most have been acquired under my service, I assume. That you suffer for my sake brings me great sorrow.”

“It is my duty.”

“Were it that it wasn’t,” Marth’s smile is pained and brittle, fraying at the edges. “were it that I could provide you my protection, away from all that may harm you.”

“My duty is my life.”

“Your duty should not require your life as recompense.”

Kris falls silent.

Then—

“You fear it may be lost.”

“Every day. Every moment.”

“I will not die.”

“You cannot promise that, and I understand. Fully.”

“I can.”

“You cannot.”

“Can’t I?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Kris gazes directly into pools of crystalline blues, unwavering. “So long as you need me, I will live. Whatever the future holds, wherever my wretched soul wanders, I would drag myself from the deepest pits of hell and return to your side. No matter the cost.”

“You shouldn’t speak of such things,” Marth murmurs. “You mustn’t speak of yourself that way.”

“I would do anything for you.”

“You need not.”

“Simply say the word, my lord, and it shall be done.”

“Always so stubborn,” his king’s laughter is quiet, his smile equally as fond as it is exasperated. “Very well. In that case, I ask you take care and keep me within your heart. Never forget your friend awaits your return. Patiently, of course.”

“I fear it will burst at this rate.”

“Pardon?”

“My heart,” Kris lays Marth’s hand upon his chest so that he may observe. Not for another. Only him. “were I to keep any more of you here, I fear it would rupture and kill me anyway.”

This time, it is Marth who falls silent.

“You are my life,” Kris continues, his accursed tongue barreling onward without further forethought. So be it. These feelings aren’t anything he’s ashamed of, anything he is desperate to keep repressed. His lord should know of them, should understand how deeply and ardently his devotion burns. “So long as you live, I will carry on.”

His king says nothing, the critical, heavy weight of his stare pinning Kris where he sits.

“…as do I,” Marth murmurs at once, his tone soft, an absent whisper in the wind were it not for their proximity. “So long as you live, I will carry on. Forevermore.”

“Your sentiments are wasted.”

“Why do you speak of yourself like so?”

“I am not worth your—your _grace_.”

“In spite of everything? All we have suffered? All we have conquered? Together?”

“I covet.”

“What is it you covet?”

“What is not mine. What I cannot have,” It pains him to say so. Kris grits his teeth against the agony, the misery of an ardor not his to revel in, not his to suffer the pains and tribulations of. “What was never mine to understand.”

“You presume too much,” Marth cups either side of Kris’s face with his saintly hands. “A man of your integrity, ofyour dignity and righteousness, of your virtuous caliber, why would he not be deserving of his own covetous needs and wants?” He smiles, and it is loving and it is adoring and it is _knowing_. Oh so very _knowing_. What a fool Kris has been to think he could hide anything from his liege. His lord. His _king_. “Tell me, my dearest, what is it you want?”

“The sun itself,” Kris breathes, eyes fluttering shut as Marth leans upon him. “My light.”

“Speak then.”

“If I do, I will not stop, and you will be revolted, because I am a terrible man with terrible desires.”

“I don’t mind,” Marth replies, in his endless patience. “You enjoy insisting otherwise, but I am no saint. My desires are likely no different from your own, covetous and lustful as they are.”

“Lustful,” Kris repeats, dumbfounded. His prince? His Marth? How unexpected. “Interesting. Tell me more.”

“You first.”

“That’s hardly fair.”

“Your king commands it.”

“ _Gods_ ,” Kris shudders. It’s too good. This must be a dream. “Poetry, my lord. More. Please.”

“Not until you speak, dearest.”

“ _You_. Always you. The very moment I took up your banner, I was yours. I—I want for you.”

“And I you,” his king angles his head to the side and presses their lips together, light and sweet, a glimpse into the future, of what is to come. He pulls away briefly, a delighted chuckle escaping him. “Forgive my hesitance all these years. My courage failed me when it mattered most.”

“Yes, yes. I understand. Forgiven. _Another_ ,” Kris demands, huffing when Marth laughs at his eager impatience. “Quickly. I won’t wait.”

“You won’t?”

“Would you make me?”

“Not at all. Unless you desire it so?”

“Another day. Not now.”

“I assumed as much,” his king— _his Marth_ —kisses him again and again, warming his body, his spirit and his soul, all while Kris is struck with the realization that there was no reason to know of this earlier. No reason to know of touch and warmth and sense like this, not without his heavenly hero-king.

And now that he knows, he will never un-know it, and what a relief that is, he thinks, pressing closer, until he isn’t certain where he begins and where his dearest ends.

What a relief, he thinks, to have this and to never let go.


End file.
